Category: Brody

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer. The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home. And that meant…

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight. Some nights, it meant fantastic sex. Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck. That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular. His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer. Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood. Those were bad nights. If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye. If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck. And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex. Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck. On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights. Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries. Lately, Travis was scared.

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no. Tonight he was gonna find out.

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam. He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man. He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on. And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road. Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was. At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam. He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans. He was fit but not overly developed. He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles. His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold. Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color. Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress. He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top. To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock. After all, tonight might be a good night…

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf. Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room. Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded. “This one’s still damp.” Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck. It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge. “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.” Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can. He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans. Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center. Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair. Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying. “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground. “I’m serious, Brody. You—you hurt me, man. You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean. You don’t have to hurt me.”

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes. “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot. I like hearing you squeal. I like seein’ ya in pain. It gets me off, motherfucker.”

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth. The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out. Now.

“I’m goin’, Brody. I gotta. I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed. “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it? I ain’t good enough for ya now? You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face. Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

Brody hadn’t been kidding. He really did get off on hurting Travis.

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door. He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help. Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it. Still, he needed to chance it. Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed. Brody had punched him in the side as he went past. “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch. “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard. Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back. As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch. Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911. “Hello? Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece, “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him. Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms. The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was. He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down. And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered. He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through. If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

That was when he heard the siren in the distance. Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag. And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door. “Police! Open up!” Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice. Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men. One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked. “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

“See the mark on my face? Yeah, I’m sure. Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload. “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined. He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him. If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody. “Turn around, buddy. Hand behind your back.”

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis. “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

The younger cop spoke up for the first time. “Gotta do it, mac. State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges. That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges. After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said. “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out. This guy can put it on when we get back to town.” With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events. Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform. “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious. When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave. Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

“Don’t forget,” the cop said. “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges. Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order. Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally. I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer. He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up. “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right. Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned. “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order. Fuckin’ makes me sick. That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me. C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road. Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone. “Hey, Eric? Yeah, man, I need a favor. Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’? Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station. Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here. Just text me when yer on the way. Thanks, man.”

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up. Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil. It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay. It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire. As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order. Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking. And kept it up all evening.

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point. But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

That goddam little cocksucker. Think he could kick Brody outta his own property? He’d see about that.

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires. His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

They all came back to him now, but this time was different. The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that. Do them was right. It was fitting.

“Ya need a lift? Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

Brody thought for a moment. “Yeah, he does. I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive. That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity. “No one, darlin’. Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric. Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them. With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes. Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night. Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by. He’d done it several times before.

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom. He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers. The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room. He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin. He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room. Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place. He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

It was a key in the lock. And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist. “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911. He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him. The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did. As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom. His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it. As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly. Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room. Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily. Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled. “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?” He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury. “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya? That’ll all? Nothing else?”

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable. He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before. He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely. “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back. It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse. The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance. Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed. Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf. Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again. He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

The little fuck had to learn. Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted. This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things. And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door. “Travis?” he called gently. “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them. Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders. His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude. Huh? Ok? Can I just go?” He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door. “We need to talk about it. C’mon, man, open up the door.”

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick. The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face. The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee. The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter. In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

That was bad—very bad. Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes. Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly. “You scared, asswipe? You should be. Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis. In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom. Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage. The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity. The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror. He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

In any event, he didn’t have a choice. Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip. Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame. He couldn’t breathe at all. No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor. And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him. Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive. The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive. He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach. The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt. With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye. He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit. There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though. It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes. In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed. Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light. Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor. His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally. “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up. See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly. Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well. Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was. The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

Travis knew he was trapped. There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better. “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy? You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker? Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free. Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly. The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal. The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

Both hurt like all fuck. Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

“That got yer attention, huh? That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks? Yeah? Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from. I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain. Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy. So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody. The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click. Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door. He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

“Ain’t no way out, boy. See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass. Ya feelin’ me, son? Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya? Naw, I don’t think you are. Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder. Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung. It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing. Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled. Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again. The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum. Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused. The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis. For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak. “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered. With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest. This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again. And again.

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt. Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them. It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow. All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap. That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side. Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself. In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound. He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain. His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart. His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good. But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube. This time it was different. This time it hurt bad.

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube. Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open took Travis’s breath away. He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

The hardbodied redneck grinned. He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb. The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized. His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose. His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly. He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

Brody noticed it.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled. “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight. Ya like that idea, huh? I shoulda offed ya a long time ago. In fact—”

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat. As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy. Remember Tuesday night? I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun. But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat. His air was completely cut off. This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had. I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died. That get ya off, you sick fucker? Yeah?”

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words. His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering. But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch. “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp. By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are. If anyone finds it in the first place. Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through. Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head. It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention. He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead. His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words. They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment. Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage. His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place. As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

And he couldn’t. He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life. The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference. The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system. The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo. Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold. Was the heat on? He couldn’t remember. All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock. He was full. Brody had filled him with manmeat. Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why? What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway. In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously. Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt. With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped. “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag. Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!” He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair. At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

Brody shoved. With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything. His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum. Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft. For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad. It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face. The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls. He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum. With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs. Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again. His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column. A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges. He’d get a new door tomorrow. After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer. He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body. The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back. As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels. Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was. The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet. Ever. I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface. The he headed back to the truck.

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect. His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said. If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

That was it, man. That was how to do it. Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot. Fuck yeah.

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation. He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right. He just needed a victim.

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio. His dick was getting hard again…